Wolves
by mholub00
Summary: "They're like wolves," she says, "and I'm the prey." (Clint and Natasha and a terrible-encounter-turned-bonding-moment) (Three Parts)
1. Before

**32 minutes and 11 seconds before:**

"Just don't forget the files this time, okay?"

She rolls her eyes at the person on the other end of the phone, balancing a six pack of beer on her knee as she attempts to get the key to turn in the old and rusty lock. "No, Cli- yes, we do have to do work. If those reports aren't done…you know how Coulson gets. He'll pass the Thailand opp on to…I know you really want that one. So don't forget the files."

The door opens with a jerk and she catches the six pack just before it hits the floor with an unprecedented level of grace, not even missing a step as she moves into the dark apartment.

"Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say," she says, kicking the door shut behind her before slipping out of the six inch heels. "Alright- yeah, same as usual. Okay? See you soon."

A chill settles throughout the room as she sets the phone on the counter, sending a shiver down her spine.

Something's not right. Natasha counts to seven, listening carefully for the slightest sound.

The rustle of the curtains sets her off and she spins around, cocking her gun and aiming in the direction of the noise. She has barely a second to register the sinister look to the smile in the darkness before a dark shape steps sideways and dives out the window. Her arms fly over her face to block the shattering glass and she swears loudly because she knows the intruder is lost.

Natasha reaches behind her for her phone, pulling it from the counter as she scans the rest of the room and moves slowly towards the door.

She's dialing his number when the world erupts in blinding flames.


	2. Then

**Then:**

Something is on fire.

He is thinking about the Thailand Operation, about wild jungles and riding elephants and climbing across rooftops when he hears it, the crackling of flames and ringing of sirens and the screaming; so much screaming. The aroma of charred wood and smoke engulfs the street and he can't help but cough once or twice.

Clint rounds the corner and the feeling he hates returns, when his stomach drops and his heart skips a beat and he thinks he might stop breathing, and he can't help but remember that from the moment he woke up this morning, he knew it was going to be a bad day.

It's Monday and Mondays are Chinese take-out at her place and Friends reruns while they really do try to get work done.

But Monday night has gone up in flames.

His grip tightens on the plastic bag in his hand- two bowls of orange chicken and fried rice, one with shrimp- and he scans the crowd outside the building, trying to stamp out his rising panic.

The realization that she's not there, not outside, is starting to set in when he catches the glimpse of red hair, and the red hair is connected to a person kneeling on the ground, shadowed by an ambulance and the commotion of medics.

The bag slips from his grasp as he pushes through the people, whispering her name over and over, and he is vaguely aware of the sound of crunching Styrofoam as their prospective dinner is trampled in the growing crowd.

She flinches when he touches her shoulder, coming from the alley so no one would notice his approach. Not that attention was focused in their direction anyway. Her breathing is short and raspy and he squats next to her, placing a hand on the small of her back and taking a quick survey of the scene.

"I…I got them all out," she says in between coughing. "They…blew up my…my apartment. But I got…them out."

Her voice grows faint and she leans over farther, dry heaving several times and ending in a whimper. He watches a single tear slip from the corner of her eye, contemplating how long she was in the building. Shortness of breath, coughing, nausea…the only guess he has is too long, and far longer than any normal person would have lasted.

"You did great, Nat. You did great." He keeps his hand on her back, rubbing it absentmindedly in comforting circles. One last survey of the crowd, the firelight causing the shadows to dance and flicker across everyone's faces, and he decides they have to leave now or it will be too late.

"We've gotta go, okay?" he whispers. She shakes her head weakly but he knows they don't have another option. If they stay there, they risk capturing the attention of medics or bystanders, or worse.

Though the bomber could already be there, and Clint wouldn't even know.

"You're going to be okay, I promise," he says, sliding an arm across her back and tilting her slightly. She molds easily into his movements, not pretesting in the slightest, allowing him to slide the other arm under her knees and lift her easily into the air. "Just keep breathing, Nat. Keep breathing."

She nods and he looks down at her broken expression, the black streaks of soot covering her face and the angry burn crisscrossing her cheek, and tries to ignore the stab of fear in his heart as they disappear into the darkness.


	3. After

**11 hours, 58 minutes and 4 seconds after:**

He would openly admit that strings of Russian cusswords are sounds he's accustomed to waking up to, but breaking porcelain doesn't usually precede them.

Groaning into the leather of his couch cushion, he forces his eyes open and moves to sit up. Muscles scream in protest as he rolls his shoulders, recounting just how many times they'd doubled back and around- she'd been passed out in his arms by the time he'd decided it was safe to come to his apartment and he'd tucked her into the bed, laid next to her for 28 minutes with his fingers on the pulse on her neck just to make sure she was still breathing, and sat in the armchair with a loaded gun, contemplating what scared him more: the prospective threat or the fact she'd let him see her cry.

"Do you do this to make me feel special?" he questions, watching the red head in his kitchen push shards of what used to be a mug into his trashcan. "Break my things?"

"That's from poor organizational skills on your part. All I did was open the cabinet," she shoots back, glaring at him from across the room. He looks her up and down, from the damp curls hanging loose around her shoulders to the purple t-shirt that's obviously his, and he notes that the burn has mostly healed already.

"There's a sign," he says, motioning lazily in her direction. She rolls her eyes because she saw it, the crudely taped piece of paper on the cabinet door with 'watch for falling cups' in his identifiable chicken scratch. "You should have been prepared."

He pulls the slightly wrinkled t-shirt off of the foot of the couch, discarded when he'd calmed down enough to let the exhaustion hit him, and stands, padding quietly over to lean on the breakfast bar, bottoms of his sweatpants dragging on the wood. "You can just add it to the list."

From the mess of a drawer he pulls a pad of paper and a pen, sliding them across the counter to where she's banging on the coffee maker to get it to start.

"You have got to be kidding me," she mumbles, looking down at the title 'Things Natasha Owes Me' and the half page of items below it.

"I don't kid," he says without a hint of sarcasm. "And make sure you add that it was my _favorite_ mug, because you're going to have to work extra hard to pay that one off."

"You have six others that are the exact same!"

"Yeah, but I liked that one best. We had a connection."

She throws the pen cap at him and writes much harder than necessary, he can see the thick black lines of her letters even from his angle, before throwing the pen and the notepad at him too. He laughs lightly and slips the t-shirt on over his head, but he doesn't miss the look in her eyes that says the time for jokes is over.

The coffee maker beeps as she attempts to get it to work and he moves behind her, a frown settling on his face at the defeated hunch of her shoulders. She freezes when he rests his chin on her shoulder, but the catch of breath is let out in a sigh, and he pulls her hand away from the infuriating machine.

"I'm alright," she says in the way that means she's not alright at all.

"I know." He runs a finger over the marks on her cheek, knowing that what is now healing skin will be a scar tomorrow and fade entirely two days after that. "I'm alright too."

After a minute she turns to face him. "They're going to come again."

"Yeah."

"They're like wolves," she says, "and I'm the prey."

"And it's not safe for me to be around you, right?"

"They're not going to stop until I'm locked up again and under their control…or dead. And don't say they'll have to go through you first because they will, they'll go right through you and kill you too," she adds when he opens his mouth.

For a second he just looks at her, at the plea of understanding and the serious fear in the emerald gaze, and then he smiles, slightly, and tucks a wet strand of hair behind her ear.

"They're not taking you anywhere, and that's a promise."

The fight has gone out of her and she collapses against his chest, somewhat annoyed and mostly relieved and she doesn't remember why she doubted he would stand by her in the first place.

"Besides," he whispers in her ear, "you're not allowed to die until you replace my favorite mug."

She flicks him on the ear because she doesn't have the will to actually hit him, but the inevitable fight doesn't seem so terrible anymore.


End file.
